Written 21 - May - 2012.
Edited 01 - May - 2013.
Let's put it this way: if I could live on nothing but books, I would.
They are glories, worlds unto themselves,
Secrets locked in with ink and woody flesh.
Tales of goblins, ghouls, sorcerers, and elves,
Delightful prison windows made from mesh.
Changing, unchanging, fickle and faithful,
A different thing to every soul that roves,
And yet the same to every ghost and wraith
That searches in our history's treasure troves.
Their company, I confess, is delightful
When compared to the numb that is speech
With those whose grasp on fact is simply frightful,
But still it isn't much of a reach
To say that if I could live on nothing but books,
I would be distraught, a wreck,
Pulled apart by far too many hooks,
Since it's so simple to go unchecked.
And so I live in this universe alone,
For thy own pleasure I mark my days.
Living for the sound of thy voice, and thine alone,
Triumphing in the truth that is thy gaze.
Thou a glory art, my dearest heart,
A world unto thy very own.
I would let nothing tear us apart
And leave thee on thy own…
Except, of course, the chance to live on books, and nothing more.
